Sealed With a Kiss
by beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: With a kingdom ravaged by war, Belle finds solace in anonymous letters-until she's ripped from her homeland by a beast. Or: The one where Belle and Rumpelstiltskin are secret penpals before he deals for her.
1. Chapter 1

Belle shifted in her seat, the weight of her voluminous skirts making it difficult to sit comfortably on the healer's stool. She had declined the woman's offer of her rocking chair, but she was starting to think it would have been less embarrassing to be seen as the haughty royal than to be seen as the woman who fell on her bum every time she tried to sit down.

"So you said it was nightmares, lass?"

Belle swiveled on the stool to face the woman across the room, catching herself on the lower rung when she started to slide off. "Yes."

"About the ogres?"

The woman stopped poking through her cabinets to turn and look at Belle, who tried to remain normal-colored under her gaze.

"Yes. About the ogres."

She clucked her tongue, then turned back to her cabinets, and Belle was struck with the need to continue. She had never been good at lying.

"I'm just afraid that these attacks will escalate—that it'll turn into a war. I know the ogres have been beaten in the past, but at what cost?" This was what she had rehearsed on the short carriage-ride over, but it still came out sounding as scripted as it was.

"Of course, dear." The healer's old voice was soothing, but Belle couldn't stop twisting her fingers in her lap anyway. All she could do was hope that the woman believed her, and didn't mention her suspicions to anyone that would tell her father.

When she came away from the cabinet, she was holding a small purple satchel. "Put this under your pillow at night, dear. It should ward off the worst of the dreams. I don't have anything strong enough to get rid of them all."

Pleased to be standing again, Belle struggled to her feet. "Thank you so much." She handed her a small coin purse, and the healer handed her the satchel. Just as Belle was about to turn and leave, the healer grabbed her hand.

"Yes?" Belle asked, chewing the inside of her cheek.

"You let me know if you need something for your wedding night."

They stared at each other, Belle's eyes widening. She knew. She had to know. Still, Belle wasn't going to mention it, so she swallowed and forced a smile. "Of course. Thank you for your kindness."

* * *

It was pitch dark and silent outside when Belle shot awake, panting and covered in sweat. Her nightmare was the same as it always was—devoid of ogres and full of Gaston. With trembling hands, she pushed the covers aside and swung her legs out. Her thin chemise clung to her skin, making it a hassle to move around.

"It'll ward off the worst indeed," she said under her breath, letting out a tiny huff of air while she searched for matches. Once her bedside candle was lit, bathing her in a soft circle of light, the muscles in her back relaxed.

"Well, I certainly won't be going to her for anything for my wedding night." Standing, she peeled off her chemise, letting the cool night breeze take away the clammy moisture sticking to her skin. Now that they had doubled the amount of guards, she had to be careful not to disrobe by the window. Not only did she want to preserve her modesty, but she didn't want anyone other than her maid to know that her nightmares forced this habit nearly every night. She'd been hoping that the healer would save some of her nightclothes as well as her sanity.

Once naked, she crawled back into bed, pulling the sheet up to her chin. There was a 50/50 chance that she would sleep through the rest of the night, and maybe the satchel would work on the dreams that were lurking in her subconscious.

When she didn't feel the satchel the first time she stuck her hand under the pillow, she didn't panic. She twisted around, mindful of the candle, and dug around further. Still unable to locate it, she stood on her knees and flipped her pillow over.

The satchel wasn't there.

"Well." She stared at the expanse of silken sheets, unmarred by any satchel of any sort. "I suppose that's why it didn't work."

She made note to ask her maid about it in the morning, then determined to spend the rest of the night attempting to sleep.

* * *

Her maid knew nothing about the satchel when Belle brought it up, and after she turned the room upside down looking for it, Belle was forced to accept the fact that it was gone. The replacement satchel disappeared in much the same manner—one minute, it was under her pillow, and the next, Belle was throwing the duvet at Gaston's grabbing hands, and there was no satchel to ward him off. The healer could no more explain the sudden disappearance than Belle could, and she gave her the third free of charge. When it met the same fate as the first two, Belle gave up.

"Where are they going?" she demanded of her bedside table. When it did not respond, she huffed, throwing her arms in the air. "What, are they enchanted sheets?" She tossed the pillow aside and poked at them, but they seemed as normal as any other sheets. With a sigh, she flopped onto the bed, naked again.

"What do I do?"

Either the healer was giving her magical satchels, or there was something wrong with her bed. Belle had hoped the first satchel was a fluke, and had even managed to cling to that after the second one disappeared, but she couldn't ignore the fact that it happened three times. Something was going on, and it was up to her to figure it out. She may have hated her nightmares, but she loved a good mystery more—even if she had to narrate it to herself.

She had no way to test the satchel, since it had disappeared, so she would have to wait to do that in the morning. It might have been a good idea to wait to do all of her testing in the morning, but now that she'd discovered her quest, there was no way she would be able to sleep.

"All right," she said, tapping her nightstand. "I'll need more light." There was an oil lamp that she kept stashed in her bedside table for late night reading, and that plus the candle would have to suffice.

"Okay, so the first step is to check the pillows and blankets for anything unusual."

She flipped the pillow, running her hands along the fabric to see if there were any hidden catches, or anything that just felt weird. She didn't know what magic felt like, but she hoped that there would be some sort of clue—sparks or warmth or even gooeyness. When everything felt normal, she sat back on her ankles, lips scrunched.

"Step one, check," she said, tracing a tick mark in the air. "Guess I've got to just test it out."

The plan was to use a big, bulky object. The satchels were small, and they could have slipped behind her bed and hidden somewhere—even though she and her maid had looked everywhere—so she needed to use something for which disappearance would be conspicuous.

Not a book—if she lost any of hers to the magical space, she would be sorely disappointed. Perhaps she could get it back, but she wasn't sure that she would be able to do it tonight, so it needed to be something that she wouldn't miss for at least a few days.

Her gaze fell upon her court shoes. In the midst of an almost-war, they were rarely necessary, since no one in the war room cared much for fashion. Ducking under the window, she scurried to retrieve them, scurrying back with much less care from the excitement of it all.

She felt like she should say something, since she was about to embark on a major research venture, but it was the middle of the night and she was naked and excited, so the best she could manage was a "here goes nothing" before she set the rosy shoe on the mattress. Then, lips pressed together, she settled the pillow on top.

It was instantaneous. One second, she could see the outline of the shoe on her pillow, and the next, it was gone. She squeaked with delight, clapping her hands together. How could she possibly have thought she could sleep after this discovery, and let the rest wait until morning?

After fumbling around in her bedside table drawer, she came up with a quill, ink, and parchment, and set about writing.

Dear Whoever This Reaches,

I have just discovered that some of my things are disappearing. I'm

not sure where they're going, or if there even is a person on the other side, but I was

hoping that the magical channel might be a two-way road. Please, if anyone is getting this, write back.

Also, if you could send my shoe with your letter, that would be ideal.

Sincerely,

The Woman on the Other Side of the Pillow

Satisfied—though her handwriting was a little shaky with all the excitement—she rolled up the parchment. Then, with lips pressed together, she stuck it under her pillow and sat back to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Rumpelstiltskin shot up, the pile of silken sheets falling around his waist. Something had jarred him awake, and his chest was heaving, but he could see nothing as he whipped his head around, looking for the source of the disturbance. Whoever had hit him couldn't have gone far. There were only two people that he knew of who could have gotten past the magical wards on his private chambers, and one of them was in Wonderland.

Regina was going to pay for this. The only times he ever allowed himself to sleep were when his body was too exhausted to function and his mind was too exhausted to provide nightmares. Sometimes, he went weeks without, only resting when he sat at his wheel.

With a snap of his fingers, the fireplace sprang to life, and all the candles lit. "Show yourself!"

He stared at the room for another full minute, casting every revelation spell he could think of, and still nothing emerged. Regina wasn't that good at hiding.

Forced to accept the fact that he must have dreamed the attack, he flopped back onto his pillows.

"What the—" He sprang back up and whirled around, pulling a muscle in his back that he hadn't even thought he could hurt. A jolt of magic fixed it, and then he was on his knees in front of the pillow, preparing his most vicious curses for whatever Regina had done.

When he ripped the pillow away, though, all he could do was stare. There was nothing that screamed 'Regina' about what he saw, but he could think of no other explanation. The object that had awakened him was a delicate red shoe—something worn by a princess, no doubt, and far too demure for Regina's tastes. Most perplexing, however, were the three palm-sized purple satchels underneath it. Upon inspection, he found nothing magical nor threatening—just some lavender, chamomile, and a few dried lemon peels. Perhaps it was potpourri?

He couldn't imagine why any of this was under the pillow, and before he could begin to speculate, a scroll appeared atop the pile. He seized it, his hope that it would provide an explanation outweighing his caution about grabbing something that appeared out of thin air.

At his age, few things surprised him in life. After reading the scroll—twice—he found himself flabbergasted. How was it possible to not know that his own bed was magical? After three centuries with the same sheets, how could he not have known that there was a portal there?

It gave him small comfort that this 'woman on the other side of the pillow' didn't know what was going on either. At least he, with his magical knowledge, had the upper hand. With a snap of his fingers, a quill and ink appeared, and he began to craft his response.

_You should be more careful, dearie. You never know what's on the other side. You could be tempting a maelstrom_.

He hesitated before signing. On one hand, he could tell her he was the Dark One, and be done with it. On the other, if he didn't tell her, she might write again. Not that he cared, or anything—but it might be nice to have someone to talk to who didn't want something from him other than her own shoe. Decided, he ended with _The Man on This Side_, then pressed his pillow over the letter before he could think to roll it up. The shoe and satchels disappeared along with it, and he cursed. If he returned everything immediately, what reason would she have to write back?

He rocked back and forth on his heels. He was awake now, and doubted he would sleep for another few days, but if he sat here and waited for something else, the anticipation would kill him before he ever closed his eyes again. He needed his wheel, but it was downstairs, and bringing it up here all because some woman wrote him a letter that was nice was a terrible idea. He would probably never hear from her again.

He almost toppled off the bed when the scroll reappeared. Was she waiting on the other side, too? He fumbled to unroll it, and the first thing he saw were splotches of ink where she seemed to have gotten a little too excited.

Dear Man,

Oh, this is so exciting! We can communicate! Thank you for the shoe, by the way. My father wouldn't be very happy if court resumed and I was barefoot. Oh, and the satchels, too, though I don't know what to do with them if I can't put them under my pillow. They're supposed to ward off nightmares.

I feel silly calling you man and myself woman, but you're right. Either of us could be dangerous. At this moment, I could be planning to send a knife through while you're sleeping. So how about initials?

Yours,

B

_B._ He praised her cleverness, but already he craved to know her full name. There was power in names, and it was wise of her not to release more than an initial—though if he played his cards right, she would never need to know how dangerous it would be to give it to him.

He didn't know when he had made the decision to be a man instead of the Dark One—it might have been around the point where she signed it 'yours'—but he was already scribbling a response below hers, his elegant script suffering from his own enthusiasm.

B,

It seems that we can. Those satchels won't do anything for nightmares, dearie. Not unless you make them into a tea, and even then, they'll only soothe.

What sort of courtier are you then, my lady B?

—R

He should have been more concerned. For all he knew, this was some evil trap that he'd fallen right into. It could have been Cora, scheming from Wonderland and trying to get back in touch, but somehow, he knew it wasn't her. Red may have been her color, but he had once been intimately acquainted with her feet, and this shoe was far too delicate for her. Besides, he would know if it was Cora. Somehow, he would know.

Dear R,

Oh, this initial thing is awful. I'm horribly curious about your name, but I suppose it's for the best. I've heard that names have power.

Are you a healer? The one I saw swore that this would ward off at least the worst of the nightmares. I'm a princess, you see, and the ogres are encroaching on our lands. I haven't slept in months. Of course, now that I know about this, I'll probably never sleep again. I'm so excited. Are you?

Yours,

B

B,

There are few things more powerful than a name, it's true. Yes, I'm a healer, and a tailor. Not quite so glamorous as a princess, I'm afraid, but it puts food on the table. Are your lands prepared for a war?

You seem excited enough for the both of us.

—R

If this was a cruel joke from Cora or her spawn, he was definitely in for it now. A healer and a tailor? Neither would ever let him live it down. He could tell, though, that B's excitement was genuine. He could feel it radiate off the page more and more with each new word, and he drank it in like wine. He was stepping on a dangerous road.

Dear R,

Being a princess isn't that glamorous, but it does give me access to fine fabrics out of which a tailor could potentially make fine garments to sell. Are you a very skilled tailor? Your handwriting is lovely. I can only imagine the craftsmanship extends to your other pursuits.

Well, last time I was in the war room, my father was confident, but my fiancé won't let me in the war room anymore. He says it's no place for a princess, but I think that's ridiculous. I'm the only heir to the throne. I ought to know what's going on, don't you think?

Sorry. Everyone says I talk too much.

Yours,

B

Rumpelstiltskin stared at the letter. It was only when he realized that B might worry he'd lost interest that he took up the quill again.

She didn't ask about him as a healer. She didn't mention her nightmares, or anything sly about getting a remedy for them. Instead, she'd offered him something—him, the poor tailor she'd never met. She wanted to give him something valuable, just because she was excited, and perhaps thought him to be impoverished.

Then, there was the fiancé. What did that mean? He knew it had to mean that she was young enough to be of marrying age, and young enough to care about what her father thought. It didn't necessarily mean that she was pretty, but he didn't much care if she was or wasn't. What he cared about—that he was resolutely not caring about—was the fact that she'd called her fiancé ridiculous. Gods, he was in for it.

Dear B,

I could make garments that you wouldn't believe were real. I can also get rid of your nightmares, but you must promise to go to sleep. It's getting late.

Any princess who wishes to learn the art of war should be able to. You seem a smart woman. I would hate to see you cast aside in favor of idiotic soldiers, who only know how to point and stab.

Hang the dream catcher above your bed. It will ensure uninterrupted rest.

—R

He waved his hand to retrieve a dream catcher, but then stopped, eyes drawn to the one hanging above his own bed. It was strung with his own golden threads, powerful enough to catch even a magical dream, and decorated with a carved wooden lion. Seconds later, it was in his hand, and before he could give himself time to think, he was pressing it into the pillow with the scroll.

Dear R,

Oh, gods, how can I ever repay you? This is lovely! Did you carve it yourself? I've never seen anything like it. What would you like? Silk? Jewels? Please, anything. How does it work?

Yours,

B

Even as his hand scrawled the words, he couldn't believe he was writing them.

Dear B,

Meet me again tomorrow at a more reasonable hour for princesses to be awake. An hour after sundown, perhaps? Then I'll answer your questions.

—R

It was the lowest price he could ever recall asking, and yet he couldn't imagine anything more fitting. She had him by a sturdy golden thread, and he was already helpless to keep her from dragging him wherever she led.

Dear R,

It's a date, then.

Yours,

B


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to everyone reading! :D _

* * *

Hours after she'd awakened from the best night's sleep she'd had in months, she was still smiling from the encounter. Curled up in the chair by her fireplace, her mind was thousands of miles away from the book she was reading, though she flipped through the pages every minute or so. It was instead focusing on well-used parchment and sturdy calligraphy, and on calculating just how much longer until it would be sunset.

"Belle?"

Gaston's voice was an unusual thing to hear in her room, and she jumped, slamming her book shut.

"Gaston."

He stepped through the doorway, having to hunch to fit, and shuffled from foot to foot once he was inside. He was staring at her, so she made no move to straighten out. She wouldn't pretend to be someone that she wasn't in her own personal space.

"Is there something I can do for you?" she asked when he just continued to stare.

"You look—you look very pretty today."

She stared. Had he just come to compliment her? Was it some sort of ploy to sweet talk her into doing something? He looked surprised, though—something she chose to ignore. Maybe her full night's sleep was noticeable. Or maybe she was just happy. She smiled, averting her eyes to be polite.

"Thank you, Gaston. That's very kind."

He nodded, still staring at her like he had never seen her before. She could feel a blush rising in her cheeks. The dress she was wearing was an old coral number that she wore for comfort more than style, and she'd done nothing to her hair other than braid it. She knew that she had R to thank for whatever it was that Gaston was seeing.

"Was that all?" she asked.

"Oh." He cleared his throat and straightened up. "Uh, I came to invite you to have dinner with me after the war council session."

Belle stared. Gaston hadn't specifically invited her to dine with him in months—not since the beginning of their engagement, when he was still trying to court her to make it seem less arranged. Something important must have been happening.

"Of course," she said, forcing a smile. "I'll see you after the session."

He bent his neck in a stiff nod, and left after letting his gaze linger in one last stare. Once he was gone, Belle scrambled out of her chair, looking for a new parchment and some ink. She knew it was silly of her to think that R would care so much if she was late, but he had seemed excited at the prospect of talking to her again, and she couldn't bear the thought of him thinking she'd stood him up.

* * *

Dinner with Gaston had been as awkward as she expected, and she had not managed to wheedle any information out of him, despite the fact that she had tried to capitalize on whatever had gotten into her by dressing for the occasion. This plan had backfired, since all he'd been able to do was stare, and then boast about his hunting skills in a failed attempt to impress her.

Since it was later than anticipated, she'd asked her maid to help her prepare for bed and claimed exhaustion so that she would have a night of uninterrupted conversation. She found herself primping in front of the mirror a bit, fluffing her hair and puckering her lips, though R could not see her. She knew the infatuation with a person she couldn't see should have worried her, but she brushed it off.

As she'd hoped, there was a letter waiting, scribbled underneath the one she'd sent.

Dear R,

I may be late for our rendezvous tonight by perhaps an hour or two. I'll send word when I'm back in bed.

Yours,

B

B,

I will be here.

—R

She wished that there was some way she could know how long ago he sent it, because the idea that he would wait for her was filling her cheeks with warmth. She dipped her quill in the inkpot, then paused to take a breath. Tonight, she would sound refined. She wouldn't ramble on at him like an excited school girl. She would talk like the lady she was, and say intelligent things, and not use so many exclamation marks.

Dear R,

I hope you weren't waiting terribly long. It seems that my fiancé has acquired new interest in me. Something about my appearance has pleased him today.

Yours,

B

Good. Good. That was a good letter to send, and she allowed herself to breathe once she had pressed the pillow over it. R wouldn't get tired of her, like every other person had, because she was too curious and excitable.

Dear B,

Your appearance doesn't please him every day?

—R

How was she supposed to answer that without sounding conceited or self-deprecating? Was there a way? She chewed her lip, looking to the golden dream catcher to give her ideas.

Dear R,

I think that sleeping the night through added a new glow to my cheeks. He was probably just surprised not to see circles under my eyes. My maid almost fainted when she found me in bed just as she'd left me. Usually, it's in disarray and I'm very tangled in the sheets.

Your dream catcher is the most powerful magic I've ever known. I'll never be able to thank you enough.

Yours,

B

It wasn't exactly the composed letter she'd been planning, but it wasn't too bad. At least she hadn't let slip the fact that she was prone to sleeping naked. That would have been improper.

Dear B,

Does he know of your nightmares?

—R

Dear R,

The whole kingdom knows of my nightmares, though I've told them that they're about the ogres. I should probably pretend to keep having them, so that no one asks about the dream catcher. My father would die if he knew I was writing to someone I couldn't see.

Yours,

B

Dear B,

Are they not about the ogres?

—R

Belle stared at the letter in her hands. She'd been so careful to tell everyone that, even in her sleep, she feared for her kingdom's safety. Even her father, who had been her most trusted confidante since childhood, had no idea that it wasn't true. How could she have been so careless?

Dear R,

My fiancé invited me for dinner tonight. He was less conversational than usual, but he did tell me a story about the time he hunted a bear. The head is mounted over my father's fireplace.

Yours,

B

Dear B,

How many times have you heard this story?

And don't think I'm fooled by your rapid subject change, dearie.

—R

Belle bit her lip to keep it from spreading into a smile. She knew she was being obvious about the nightmares, but she didn't think she'd been obvious about Gaston. That he knew anyway, that he understood—she felt warmth rising in her cheeks.

Dear R,

I lost count after the sixth. He hasn't told it in awhile, though. He was really trying to impress me tonight. I'm hoping that I can seduce my way back into the war room now.

Yours,

B

B,

So that you can have a better selection of new potential suitors?

—R

Dear R,

Of course not. I said I would marry my fiancé and I will. I've already told you, I want to learn about being a queen, and that means learning everything. Besides, my father's been looking so tired. He needs me.

Yours,

B

Dear B,

You're an odd girl.

—R

She stared at the letter, stung. Logically, she knew that a man she'd never met and only been writing to for two nights should not have made her feel anything other than curiosity, but her heart wasn't listening. She couldn't have been more hurt if he'd told her he hated her.

Dear R,

So I've been told.

Yours,

B

She felt her eyes welling up, and didn't take the pillow off the bed for much longer than she knew it would take R to respond. When she lifted it, she almost expected to see nothing, but there was her scroll, all rolled up.

Dear B,

It was a compliment.

—R

She read the words over and over, feeling the muscles in her chest loosen more and more each time. It was okay. R still understood her.

Dear R,

You never answered my questions from last night. How does the dream catcher work?

Yours,

B

Dear B,

The magic in the threads absorbs any dreams you may have while you sleep. The lion watches over you while you cannot defend yourself, so that you may rest easily.

—R

Dear R,

Really? Would it save the village from ogres, or is it too small? Is the thread really made of gold? And is it safe to touch? I was going to inspect it, but I didn't want to disturb the magic.

Yours,

B

Dear B,

How did you hang it if you didn't touch it?

The lion won't really protect you. But that's its legend, anyway.

—R

Dear R,

Oh, I see. Well, it's a nice thought. The lion does look very brave. Did you carve him yourself?

Yours,

B

Dear B,

Yes.

—R

Dear R,

It's beautiful. I tried to carve wood once. I think it was very successful.

Yours,

B

Dear B,

What did you make?

—R

Dear R,

A pointed stick.

Yours,

B

Dear B,

An impressive feat, to be sure.

What are your nightmares about?

—R

Dear R,

My wedding.

Yours,

B

It took a long time for his next letter to arrive, and Belle chewed her lip. For all she knew, she'd just ruined her own image with the kingdom. She could have been talking to anyone, and they could have figured out who she was by now, and be preparing to tell Gaston that the ogre dreams were a lie.

Then, the letter came, and it was wrapped around something. Careful, in case it was fragile, she unrolled the scroll. Pooled in the center was a golden chain on which pearl the size of her thumbnail, set in golden backing. Belle stopped breathing for a second, only remembering that she needed to do so when the letter caught her eye.

Dear B,

Pearls are said to wrap the wearer in calmness and beauty, as well as bring wisdom. It seems fitting for a princess of your caliber.

Now, I must retire. Sleep well, my lady. If the dream catcher fails, dust it.

—R


End file.
